


Contact

by Papershrine



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Emotional Incompetence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Truth Serum, Weird Alien Shit, mature content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papershrine/pseuds/Papershrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it seems like Grif's life has been nothing but a string of horrible, hilarious miscommunications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. that's me in the corner

**Author's Note:**

> I did not expect this fic to be this long. I didn't expect this fic to be anything at all, to be honest. Still, here is is, and I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Slight warnings for homophobia, vomit, canon-typical violence, and emotional stupidity.
> 
> Thank you to my beautiful, delightfully clever beta for not only reading this over, but starting to watch Red Vs Blue as well. Sorry for all of the spoilers, love!

If it happens again, Grif’s going to go mad.

He’s standing with his head pressed against the blissfully cold wall, helmet abandoned on the floor, and he’s too tired for this shit, he really is. Behind him, Simmons’ armor hisses as he shifts, awkwardly, in place; Grif knows, without turning around, that the other man is blushing. He can picture perfectly the way that his mouth -- his mouth, god, damn it all -- is twisting, freakishly red lips pressed together. His eyes crinkling down, darting to the left -- always the left -- as he says:

“I’ll, um, I need to go talktothetroupsbye.”

“Later, asshole,” Grif mutters to the metal panelling. “Have fun with…”

He can’t even think of a barb. That’s how he knows that it’s gone to his head. It doesn’t matter, though. Simmons is already gone.

Grif pulls off a glove and rubs his hand across his forehead, registers that he’s disgustingly sweaty, doesn’t care. He hasn’t cared in years. Trapped with two or three other guys in the middle of nowhere, hygiene breaks down fast, as much as Simmons would like to pretend otherwise. And after a little while -- after he realized that Simmons was just another ass kissing jerk in love with anyone higher up the ladder -- it became another weapon in his arsenal. In a canyon full of guns and tanks, not caring was the most potent weapon that he had. He bites his cheek and tentatively licks his tingling lips. His tongue catches on one of the surgery scars, long since healed but still noticeable. A seam, linking the donated skin to that which he was born with. It’s funny -- he never noticed before that the two were starting to seem equally his own. He wonders how Simmons is dealing with his robot bits. Wonders if he’ll ever stopped staring at his own hands, flesh and metal, grey-blue eyes wide and glassy. He wonders. Oh, he wonders.

“Fuck,” Grif says aloud. He kicks listlessly at his helmet before picking it up and stomping over to his bed. It creaks loudly as he flops backwards onto it and looks up at the ceiling. “I need a fucking drink.”

***

 There are jokes about the military. Well, ok. There are jokes about the navy, in particular, but the navy is a little outdated these days, and Grif has never liked the taste of rum. There are jokes about what happens on ships with men -- only men -- in cramped close quarters and Grif has never liked those jokes either, liked them even less when he was forced into basic training and had to hear them first hand.

It’s not that he chose to stay in the closet. He just didn’t want those dickheads to know jack shit about his life. Didn’t want Sarge, or Simmons, or, hell, Donut to own any more of him than the military already did. He’s pretty sure that they wouldn’t care. Hell, they’d probably throw him a party. A big, gay party, with Tucker making too many bad innuendos and Donut bringing cake -- and making even more innuendos -- and inviting him to join some kind of fucking pride group with him and Doc and Wash. All Grif wants is to be left alone to eat his fucking oreos.

And Simmons. Well. Simmon probably knows, by now. They’ve spent enough time together that Simmons knows about his disaster of a first kiss, his stupid celebrity crush on Matthew Macconaughey, the time he pissed his pants in third grade. Just like he knows about Simmons’ fear of falling, the thing he had for his father’s secretary. The way that his palms sweat uncontrollably when he talks to a cute girl. The taste of his tongue.

Yeah. Simmons probably knows by now.

***

Tucker is so fucking done with this shit.

“I,” he announces to the room, waving a bottle of moonshine in his left hand, “am so fucking done with this shit.”

“I know,” says Grif, and is that lazy motherfucker really still talking? “If he just. He just. Keeps doing this I mean. What the fuck am I supposed to think? He just sticks his tongue down my throat, after years -- years, so many years, and then.” Grif make jetpack noises and mimes an explosion -- or at least, that’s what Tucker hopes he’s doing. “Fucks off back to ogle fuckin’ chicks in battle armor, practically pissing himself I mean. What th’ fuck am I supposed to think, Tucker? Huh? Th’ fuck?”

“Dude,” Tucker says, “I’m not even going to start on how little I want to talk to you about this.”

“I don’t even care. I don’t care, I don’t give a fuck about -- about any of this. You know what I gave a fuck about? My fuckin’ sister, that’s what. I worked my ass off for her, and what did it get me? Dead, fuckin’ -- fuckin’ dead, Tucker, that’s what. That’s what.”

“Grif. Seriously. Stop talking.”

“Gimme.” Grif makes grabby hands at the alcohol. They’re both dressed in civies, which feels weird. There are marinara stains on the hem of Grif’s grey t-shirt and bags under his dark eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. Sighing, Tucker hands over the bottle.

“When did I become the one you people come to with their problems?” He asks, combing his fingers through his dreads. “I mean, if I’m the one with his shit together, then that’s just sad.”

Grif belches, and wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. He looks like he hadn’t showered in a few days; his shaggy black hair is sticking up at odd angles, making him look kind of like a deranged poodle.

“What you need,” Tucker continues, “Is to get laid.”

Grif snorts.

“No, I’m serious. It’s been what, six years?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Grif says, in a wounded tone that just about confirms Tucker’s point. Tucker sighs, resigned. If this asshole’s going to come to him for help, then he’ll give him help. He’ll help him so damn hard, the motherfucker won’t know what hit him.

“Alright,” Tucker says, clapping a hand on Grif’s sweaty shoulder -- and is that muscle he feels there? Has all that training actually made a dent? “Don’t ever say I’m not a good friend, and not just because we aren’t actually friends. You’re looking at the man who’s going to turn your life around.

“Huh? I don’t -- dude, I mean, I mean I’m flattered, but...”

“Ew, no! No offense, but gross. Never. Not if --” Grif pushes Tucker away by spreading his palm across his face and shoving. Tucker sprawls sideways, suddenly very aware of the alcohol sloshing around in his system. “Fuck you,” he tells the floor, which he is pleasantly surprised to find very comfortable. “See if I act as your totally awesome wingman, then.”

“I don’t need a wingman. What I need is a fucking miracle.”

“Amen, brother,” Tucker says, and reaches for the bottle.

***

 It starts like this:

They’re arguing about Batman. They do not disagree that strongly about Batman. In place of a bed, they’re lying sprawled on a pile of damp sandbags covered in a torn sheet -- one pile, singular, because Grif was too lazy to make two, and the nights are dark and cold in their makeshift base. The blanket is ratty and too small, and Grif is has most of it bunched up around his side. The sound of dripping water echoes from the far corner; in the distance, something rustles.

“-- parents are dead,” Simmons is saying, because for some reason he can’t move beyond that one basic aspect of Bruce Wayne’s backstory and realize that some of the Robins are kinda stupid. “He acts as a gruff but generally supportive caregiver because he knows what it’s like to be an orphan! Damian Wayne --”

“That’s the really young one, right? Who should probably, you know, be playing with teddy bears and shit instead of guns?”

“Batman doesn’t use guns!” Simmons says, obviously offended. Grif rolls his eyes. “Besides, Damian Wayne was raised to be a soldier! It’s the only life he’s ever known!”

“Raised to be -- he’s like five years old! Which, by the way, is so not badass. Batman would be much cooler if he just ditched the sidekicks and went out on his own.”

There is a stiff silence from Simmons, which means that he is angry for stupid reasons that he doesn’t know how to express. The dim light catches on his short dark hair, framing his face in subtle glow. Shadows drench his angular cheekbones, hiding his mouth and narrow, grey-green eyes. There are some days when talking to Simmons feels like a minefield of daddy issues and stupidity and pretending not to notice. There are some days.

Grif huffs a sigh and rolls over, pulling most of the blanket with him. The sandbags shift under his weight, creating a dent that rolls him right back around and almost on top of Simmons, who yelps in surprise.

“You are fucking impossible,” Simmons is saying and then their faces are very close together and the shadows around Simmon’s eyes shift like they’re closing and there is pressure on Grif’s cheek that slides to his mouth and holy shit, what the fuck? Grif lies there, stunned, as the pressure disappears and Simmons is jumping to his feet, wallowing through the sandbags and calling over his shoulder,

“I’m going to go keep watch! Goodnight!”

His footsteps echo as he leaves.

***

It’s an ordinary mission, so Tucker does not take The Helmet. When he’d first gotten it he’d planned on wearing it everywhere like a kickass viking with the skulls of his enemies, but the look on Wash and Carolina’s faces had put a stop to that, pronto. So now it lives in one of the weird tech rooms, where all of the bits of not-Church commune with the alien AI and hold pizza parties or whatever.

But not having The Helmet means that when they stumble across unexpected alien thing in the middle of fucking nowhere, there’s no little green hologram to tell him to stop before he runs into it. Literally. It’s hidden using Alien Invisibility Tech Bullshit and looks like yet another patch of leaves, so Tucker tries to push past and winds up bouncing off and falling on his ass. Grif, who was two steps behind him and a few feet to the left, is so caught up in his shitty internal monologue or whatever that he just keeps going. This, surprising no one, is a fucking disaster. The unexpected alien thing lights up like a christmas tree on acid and starts humming loudly. Grif is frozen in what looks like a forcefield of some kind between two delicate metal spikes, vibrating in place and making weird groaning noises.

“Holy shit,” Tucker says, pushing himself up on his elbows for a better look. His sword has activated itself and is lying a few feet away; he grabs for it and rolls to his feet as Palomo and Bitters catch up to them.

“Yeah,” Bitters says. He seems pretty chill about his commanding officer’s situation. Palomo rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and does nothing. God, Tucker hates him.

“Should we, like, help him out?” Palomo asks, like an idiot. Tucker shrugs.

“We have no idea what that thing does. I’m not touching it, no way.”

“So, what, we just leave him there and continue with the mission?” Bitters asks. Tucker sighs and shakes his head despairingly. Ugh. Children. Do they ever learn?

“Of course not. We call for backup and let _them_ handle it while we go back to base and eat lunch. Who knows what else might be out there! We can’t go on if one of the team leaders is down.”

“I… guess that makes sense,” Bitters replies slowly.

“But what about --” 

“Shut the fuck up, Palomo! I’m your commanding officer. I know what I’m doing. These are very delicate tactical decisions, ok?.”

“H-h-h-h-h-e-l-l-p,” Grif grits out. Tucker smiles at him reassuringly, then remembers that Grif can’t see him, anyway. All that effort, wasted. “Sure thing, buddy,” he says, and opens up a com line to base. 

***

The second time goes like this:

They’re in a mountain and the mountain is collapsing. Sarge is gone, Donut is gone, Felix is yelling at them to move as New Republic soldiers stream around them and rocks fall and holy shit, they are all going to die. Simmons is saying Grif’s name, over and over again and his hand is on Grif’s arm and he’s pulling him forward through the rush, voice breaking -- Simmons is still alive. Simmons is still alive.

“Through here!” Felix yells, gesturing at another, darker tunnel. Grif sees Caboose hurtle past, Tucker thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour. They turn the corner and keep going and Grif’s legs are burning from the exercise when they finally emerge at the New Republic base. Soldiers are pouring in around them (but not that many, not enough) and Simmons pulls him over to the side, a small secluded nook behind a huge, protruding rock and takes off his own helmet. His brown hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat and his eyes are wide when he says,

“Sarge. We left Sarge.”

Grif nods. His fingers scrabble against the clasps as he removes his own helmet and gulps down air. Simmons is staring at him, one hand gripping his arm tightly.

“Well,” Grif says, “That was a complete shitshow. Could have been worse, though, I mean --” And then. Then then then Simmons pulls him closer, those eyes still wide, still wild with fear and who knows what else, and kisses him. It’s not like the almost-accident in the cave, the one they never talked about. It’s messy and it’s rough and neither of them are any good at this but Simmon’s tongue is in his mouth which is. An adventure. It’s everything Grif doesn’t let himself think about and it’s nothing close to expert or intelligent and then Simmons pulls away and for a second they both just. Breathe.

“I --” Simmons begins at the same time that Grif says,

“So --”

“Found you!” Caboose yells. Grif yelps and nearly jumps out of his skin. He feels giddy and light and in way, way over his head.

“Oh, hello, Caboose,” Simmons says, voice high pitched and strangled. It’s the same voice he uses whenever Sarge catches him fucking up, or anyone mentions his mother. “What are, uh, what are you doing here?”

“I am bringing the lazy yellow one and the desperate one back to the base for murder check ups!” Caboose says cheerfully, pointing at the rebel camp. Which, Grif realizes as he bends down to grab his helmet, totally looks like something out of Star Wars. He has a sudden flash of Simmons in Princess Leia’s metal bikini, which is… amusing, in a horrifying sort of way. He turns to Simmons to share this thought, and stops.

Simmons’ face has shut down entirely. His cheeks are a bright, burning red that clashes horribly with his armor and his mouth has set into a straight, pinched line. His eyes are fixed at a point somewhere ahead and in the distance. The rush of adrenaline has burned away, and in its wake Grif sees a little of the overly serious recruit who once promised Sarge he'd slit Grif's throat in his sleep. Grif swallows, and looks away.

“I’m not desperate!” Simmons squawks in that same strangled tone. Caboose cocks his head to the side.

“Yeah,” Grif mutters, pulling his helmet on, “and I’m not yellow. Whatever, losers. See you back at camp.”

***

 They do not talk about the first time. They do not talk about the second time. Sometimes, Grif sees Simmons looking at him sideways with his mouth half-open, like he started to think of something to say but can’t figure out how the sentence should end. There’s a lot of things they don’t talk about, anymore. Grif slams his bunk door and uses too much toilet paper and leaves candy wrappers where he knows Simmons will see them. When they argue the first time about nothing it’s no longer the weird passive aggression Simmons used at the crash site and Grif is so grateful he could almost cry. They take down Felix and Church fragments himself to stop Hargrave and Grif realizes too late that he’s become a proper adult with responsibilities, which is more frightening than any mercenary. Simmons talks to his squad and comes back red faced and stuttering. Grif eats too much and doesn’t miss training, anymore.

He wonders what Kaikaina would think.

***

Wash flips through the file given to him by Carolina, glancing between it and the group of soldiers clustered around Grif. The file contains a transcript of a (jumbled, occasionally nigh nonsensical) conversation between Caboose and the so-called AI ‘Santa’ about the squad leader’s current condition, and in between the non-sequiturs and miscommunications he’s managed to make out something of the situation. It doesn’t look good. Then again, things with the Reds and Blues rarely look good. They are an unending congo line of batshit, death-defying shenanigans, which probably explains why they’re taking the whole situation so well.

“Ok, ok, but,” Tucker wheezes, nearly bent double in laughter. He has one hand on Caboose’s shoulder and the other one clutching his side, right where Wash knows he has a scar (and two moles). His cheeks are flushed and bright, crinkling as he smiles like he hasn't since the battle. Worried as he is, something in Wash's core feels a little bit warmer. “One more. Just let me ask one more.”

“Fuck you,” Grif says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Wash shakes his head. Grounds himself. Leader time.

“Tucker, this is serious. Who knows what kind of -- ”

“I know, I know,” Tucker says, waving him away. “Alien tech, trial, possible dismemberment, blah blah blah. That’s like. Every Tuesday. Hey, Grif, how old were you last time you wet the bed?”

“19,” Grif says automatically before slamming his mouth shut. Tucker howls, slapping his thigh. Wash winces in sympathy. Across the room Carolina is glaring at him, eyebrow cocked, obviously wondering why he can’t keep his team in check. No, not wondering. Demanding.

“That’s enough, Tucker.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Grif!” Donut pipes up. “Urinary incontinence is a serious medical issue. Doc was just telling me all about it!”

“I’m not -- I was drunk, ok? Simmons, help!”

“Are you kidding? This is the best thing that’s happened to me all month!”

"I said, that's--" 

“It could be worse,” Doc says. Wash looks at him sideways, hand straying to his holster. He’s still not sure that the man isn’t going to go insane and kill them all in their sleep. “At least no one else was there, right?”

Grif’s mouth contorts into a shape Wash has never seen a mouth make before. He’s starting to look seriously nauseous around the edges, dark brown skin taking on a yellowish cast.

“Um,” he says. “... No?”

“Hold up, does that mean there was?” Tucker’s eyes go wide. Behind him, Carolina throws up her hands and turns to go, giving Wash one final glare. The part of him that’s been spending too much time with the Blues is tempted to mouth back something ridiculous or, worse, stick out his tongue. He settles for a shrug and the most exasperated eyebrow movements he can manage. “Holy shit, and you actually had sex with this girl? Was she, like, completely pissed off? Ha. Pissed off. More like --”

“Tucker, _that’s enough._ ” Wash steps forward, hands raised. He spares a glance at Grif, who looks like he’s about to melt in relief. “We don’t have any of the details of this… trial mechanism. We don’t know what kinds of side effects it could have, and you shouldn’t take advantage of your friend.”

“Friend is a strong word,” Tucker says. He’s still grinning, showing off the little gap between his two front teeth.

“Friend? None of these assholes are my friends,” Grif snaps. “Friends are for people who aren’t surrounded by dickwads literally 100% of the time!”

“Aww, Grif!” Donut coos. “I think we’re friends!”

“What about Simmons?” Tucker asks. “You two seem joined at the hip. Bow Chicka-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Simmons says. His ears are blushing violently. Wash opens his mouth to try and defuse the situation before it goes belly up, but before he can speak Grif makes a sound like a cat holding back a hairball and doubles over, wretching.

“Simmons,” Grif says. His mouth is tight, every syllable choked as he drops to his knees. “Simmons --”

“Are you ok?” Doc asks, leaning forward. Grif shakes his head, clutching his stomach. One hand covers his mouth as he gags again.“Do you need medical help? Insignificant fool.”

“No. I don’t want to -- Simmons is -- Ugh.” Wash steps towards him, concerned, then jumps back as vomit splatters onto his boots. “Bluh,” Grif moans, wiping the back of his mouth. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Wash says, staring up at the ceiling. The ceiling does not stare back. “Tucker.”

“What? How was I supposed to know that he was gonna puke?”

“Maybe by using your basic powers of observation, Tucker? You’re going to clean that up, and then you’re going to assist Captain Grif to the medical bay without any further questions. After that, you will report directly to me.”

“Eugh, are you kidding?”

“No, Tucker. I am not kidding, so it would be in your best interests to go fetch a mop right. Now.”

Tucker rolls his eyes and steps away, hands raised defensively.

“Fine, whatever. No need to go all dom on me. Besides, it’s not like he has to answer every question I ask him.”

“What do you mean?” Simmons asks. He’s moved awkwardly behind Grif, one hand raised, like he wants to comfort his fellow soldier but also doesn’t want to get within vomit range. Wash can sympathize. “That’s exactly what it’s like.”

“Nuh-Uh. He didn’t answer when I asked about the girl.”

“That might be because it’s none of your business,” Wash snaps. “Tucker. Mop. Now.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Tucker says, throwing out a fake salute as he turns and marches away down the corridor.

“Come to think of it,” Donut says thoughtfully, tapping his chin with one slender finger, “he does make a good point. Grif didn’t actually answer the question.”

“Could we not do this right now?” Grif's voice is strained. He leans back against the wall, vomit trailing from his mouth and coating the breastplate of his armor. It’s not a pretty sight, and the smell is. Well. Washington’s smelled worse.

“It is important data,” Wash concedes. “If there are loopholes, that might help us find a way to end the protocol. Was there anything about that question in particular…?”

“Oh, for…” Grif slumps, looking utterly defeated. “Pronouns, alright? Wrong pronouns.”

Oh. What?

_Oh._

… Wash fucked up.

There’s a chance that Grif sharing a bed with someone was a platonic thing, sure, but from the look on Grif’s face Wash has just stumbled into something familiar and dangerous and none of his fucking business. His mind scrambles for a way to backpedal and all he can think of is the time he came out of the closet to his cat and his mom overheard him and started crying. He clears his throat.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Simmons squeaks.

“Never mind that,” Wash says hurriedly,“let’s just move on --”

“I was. Ugh, I was with a guy, ok? I was in bed with a man. A dude. A really masculine dude. He had a penis and everything. Happy?” Grif pushes himself to his feet, slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused. Simmons is staring at him like he just grew an extra head, which means Simmons didn’t know, and wow, Wash has fucked up royally.

“Uh,” Wash says, clearing his throat again. “Um. There’s not anything wrong with that, Grif. You know that I’m -- and Donut is --”

“I had no idea!” Donut chirps. “Oh, man, I’m so excited! You have got to come to the meetings, I’m sure everyone will give you a nice, warm welcome! And we could have cake --”

“Private Donut? I’m not sure now is the time.”

“Whatever,” Grif mutters. He turns and trudges off down the hallway. There’s vomit still sticking to his boots, and it leaves footprints on the white flooring that Wash will have make Tucker mop up later. Simmons gapes after Grif like a fish out of water, his eyes slightly wild. Donut pouts, shaking his head. Behind him, Doc looks like he can’t make up his mind between concerned and delighted, and has settled on slightly constipated. Wash feels heavy and useless, a clumsy nobody trying to lead and doing a fan-fucking-tastic job of it. First the vomit, then he accidentally outed a teammate. At least Carolina wasn’t there to see it. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Licks his dry lips. Looks back up at the ceiling.

“My turn!” Caboose shouts, right in Wash's ear. “I choose dare!”


	2. that's me in the spotlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one definitely got away from me. Warning for anxiety and Simmons being his usual emotional wreck of a self.

Simmons has fucked up.

“Tucker,” he groans, letting his head flop back against the edge of the bed he’s leaning on. The corner of the mattress digs into the back of his neck, the angle pressing the metal bits of his spine against the squishy parts. “Tuuuuucker. I fucked up, I fucked up, Tucker.”

“You don’t say,” Tucker replies, which is. It's definitely mean. But it’s Tucker’s room that Simmons is sitting in, and Tucker’s alcohol eroding Simmon’s system, so. The room is a mess, too, which bothered Simmons until halfway through the first bottle. Something smells like feet. Correction: everything smells like feet. Simmons probably smells like feet, too.

“Tucker,” he says, awkwardly sniffing at his organic arm, “Tucker, do I smell, do I smell like feet?”

“I’m not talking about what you smell like, dude,” Tucker says. “That’s kinda gay. Like, even for you.”

Simmons makes a noise somewhere between a wail and a gurgle. He isn’t gay, he isn’t, but he kissed Grif and Grif, Grif is, Grif. Grif. There’s a lump in his throat, like he’s about to start crying. Only children cry, he tells himself sullenly. Children and girls. Simmons reaches for the wine bottle and knocks it back, trying to dissolve the lump using chemistry or whatever. It doesn’t work. Simmons holds back a sob, barely. Grif.

“You do realize that this shit is barely even fermented, right?” Tucker says, raising an eyebrow. His eyebrows are arched and stupidly thick and Simmons isn’t jealous of them, not at all. “It’s like having sex in a canoe.”

“Don’t -- don’t rub your sex life in my face, Tucker. I’m all alone, and you’re, you’re making love in boats. That isn’t fair, life’s not, not, not. Why, Tucker?”

“... Fucking close to water,” Tucker finishes. “Jesus, you’re a lightweight. How much have you had? You assholes had better get your shit together before I run out of booze.” 

“Why didn’t he tell me,” Simmons whines, flopping sideways onto his back. His head lands on something that’s probably Tucker’s dirty underwear. He doesn’t even care. “Why didn’t -- why doesn’t -- I just want him to, he’s gay. Why doesn’t he.”

“Ugh. Seriously, this is fucking pathetic.”

“‘M not pathetic. Who are you calling pathetic? Who are you calling a, a whiny, ungrateful little pissbaby, huh? Who are you calling … disa -- disappointing?”

“Literally none of those words came out of my mouth, dumbass. No more for you.” Tucker’s hand enters Simmons’ field of vision, reaching for the bottle. Simmons shakes his head firmly, hugging it to his chest. 

“It helps, Tucker,” he says mournfully. “The bottle is the only one that, that loves me. No no no no --”

Tucker wrestles the bottle away and sets it down somewhere with a clink. Simmons considers looking at it. He looks at the ceiling instead, which is blurry and indistinct. The ceiling is metal. Simmons’ arm is metal. He wonders if the ceiling will be friends with him. No one else is.

“Bottle,” he says, plaintively. “Ceiling.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Simmons. Bottle ceiling.”

Tucker sighs, and then there’s an arm around Simmons’ shoulders and the world rolls he’s pulled to his feet. The ceiling spins, which means that the ceiling has betrayed him. Damn ceiling. He tries to put one foot in front of the other and trips. Tucker’s hands are rough as they pull him upright again and sling his arm around Tucker’s shoulders. 

“Alright, asshole,” Tucker mutters, stumbling forward. Simmons stumbles with him, trying to help. Failing. Why does he always fail? Why can’t he just carry his own weight? One traitorous foot after another. Good for nothing -- “Time for bed. God, how much do you weigh?”

“‘M not fat,” Simmons mutters into Tucker’s neck. Tucker does not smell like feet, which is surprising. He also doesn’t smell like oreos. Simmons wants him to smell like oreos. He nuzzles his head into the side of Tucker’s neck and does not cry. Together, they stumble down the hallway. 

There’s a moment when Tucker dumps him into bed when Simmons thinks he’s going to throw up, but then his stomach settles somewhat and the blankets are clean, which is nice. Tucker turns to leave, and Simmons realizes that there is something very important that he meant to say earlier-- or meant to not say, and didn’t say, but maybe should? 

“Tucker,” he says slowly, “Tucker I. I have, I fucked up, I have a. A question.”

“Look, whatever it is, I don’t care, ok? Just go to sleep. You can talk to Wash or whoever in the morning.”

The lights turn off, or maybe Simmons closes his eyes. His head feels like it’s full of styrofoam and cotton and his tongue is heavy in his mouth. Ask the question, damn it! whispers a voice in the back of his head, but it’s late and he is so, so tired. 

***

The meeting is extremely tense. Simmons is sweating in his armor, his eyes fixed on somewhere above Caboose’s head and to the left. There’s a crick in his neck, and a spot itching horribly on his left shoulder. He goes to scratch it, then remembers about the whole power armor thing and just leaves his hand there, awkward and useless. He looks like an idiot and doesn’t even care. 

Next to him, Grif stands up straight with his arms crossed, every line in his body wound tight. It makes Simmons sore just looking at him. Not that he’s looking too hard. Not that he would ever look at Grif with anything other than general, professional concern. Um.

Simmons looks away hurriedly, turning his eyes towards the giant, glowing alien AI that dominates the temple in front of them. Santa, Caboose had called it. Cute name. 

“The protocol is activated only in the most extreme of criminal trials,” Santa rumbles. “It cannot be repealed until the sentence is served.”

“Ok, ok, you said that, and we all understood it, but like, what if...” Caboose wheedles, gesturing like he’s trying to bat giant moths out of the air. Wash, who is unfortunate enough to be standing next to him, ducks. “What if we served cake, instead. Or ice cream. Everyone likes ice cream.”

“Not if they’re lactose intolerant.”

“Shut up, Tucker.”

“What kind of sentence are we talking about?” Carolina says, stepping forward. Simmons’ back straightens as he automatically stands to attention. Even with her helmet on, Carolina is one of the most beautiful, terrifying creatures Simmons has ever laid eyes on. He respects her so damn hard. “Is there anyway he could be let off easy?”

Santa makes a low Harooom noise that reminds Simmons of an angry Ent. 

“The veritas device is only used when guilt is assured. The question is not if the criminal will be killed, it’s when, and how long he will be tortured before death.”

“Eep,” says Grif. 

“Interesting. So it’s never used as a part of the trial process?”

“To take away an individual’s right to fight back is no small thing. To do so to one who may be innocent is a crime itself.”

“But I am innocent!” Grif says. His voice is at least an octave higher than normal. “Oh, man, this blows.” 

“I don’t know,” Tucker says slowly, tapping the chin-area of his helmet. “I mean, chances are you’ve done some pretty fucked up shit. Civilian casualties and whatever.”  
“I saved the fucking planet!” 

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t make you innocent. Also, who saved the planet, exactly? That’s right, all of us. Mostly me.”

“Ahem,” Carolina says loudly. Simmons jumps to attention again, just in case. “Who is or isn’t innocent isn’t relevant. And while it may be important to give credit to the right people, Tucker, that’s a pissing contest you can finish on your own time. Santa, is there anything else we should know?”

The AI is silent, which strikes Simmons as a good thing. 

“Right, then. I’ll radio the field detail and see if they’re ready to pack it in.”

“Wait,” Santa says, and, ok, this is probably not a good thing. “There is one other element.”

“... Yes?”

Santa seems hesitant, which Simmons has never seen before. It is an all-knowing alien AI, after all. What does it have to hesitate over?

“If the sentence is not served, then the criminal has escaped. The veritas device is equipped to prevent such an outcome.”

“Alright, so… are you saying he can’t leave Chorus?”

“Ah, fuck,” Grif mutters, quiet enough that only Simmons can hear him. One of his hands clenches at his side. Grif had always wanted to return to Earth, more than any of them. Always. A sympathetic ache twinges in Simmons’ gut. 

“I am saying,” rumbles Santa, “That if the sentence is not served, the device will create its own justice, and the criminal will die.”

There’s a buzzing in Simmons’ ears. The bottom drops out of his stomach, leaving ripped styrofoam In its place. He must have heard wrong. Did Santa say ‘die?’ How does that even work? He shakes his head. Again. And again.

“... Well,” Grif says finally, “That’s some fucking bullshit.”

***

The third time goes like this:

They aren’t even arguing. If they were arguing, Simmons could call it the heat of the moment. Adrenaline and repression. He read a psychology textbook once when he was in High School, so he’s pretty sure he knows how this works. They haven’t been seeing each other much recently, and they just so happen to be in the locker room at the same time -- Grif on his way out, Simmons on his way in. Grif’s tightening the straps on the pauldrons when Simmons walks in, his helmet on the bench beside him. He looks up and smiles, showing the slight gap between his two front teeth. 

“Hey,” Simmons says, removing his helmet. He’s hit by the smell of sweat, mingled with the lingering tang of fruity cologne. Donut must have been through recently. “How was training? I’m surprised you’re actually applying yourself for once.”

“It was hell,” Grif says, rolling his eyes. “And you try waking up three days in a row with Bitters standing over you with a gun. It got to me.” 

“I used to do that all the time!”

Grif cuffs Simmons lightly on the shoulder, grinning. 

“Aww, I knew you wouldn’t really shoot me. Didn't have the guts. Besides, training with Sarge was less ‘running laps’ and more ‘dodge these bullets, dirtbag!’ I’d rather die in my sleep than, ugh, running.”

He gives a little fake shudder and makes a face where his eyes bug out. Despite himself, Simmons chuckles. 

He opens his locker and carefully stows his helmet on the higher shelf before tugging off his gloves. When he closes the door, Grif is there, leaning against the wall. He’s not saying anything, just staring off into the distance in the way that he does sometimes with his dark eyes all unfocused and his full mouth curled and contemplative. A strand of black hair is caught on his cheek. It’s times like this when Simmons wonders if Grif isn’t quite as stupid as he seems to be. It’s times like this.

It’s times like this.

It feels like the most natural thing, the most important thing in the world to take Grif’s face in his hands, pressing his palm against the borrowed skin, and turn Grif’s face so their eyes meet. And it feels equally natural to lean forward so that the air that Grif is breathing is coming out of Simmons’ lungs (and entering Simmons’ lungs, because Grif got one of those, too) and their chests are pressed together through the armor and Grif’s surprised eyes are a single blur.

“Simmons, what --” Grif says, and Simmons kisses him. 

Again. 

The first time was a fluke. The second time was the heat of the moment and Simmons has nothing to blame this on but himself, but the way that Grif’s hand comes to rest on Simmons’ neck and their teeth clash a little but not too much and Grif’s body shifts forward makes it all immaterial. Grif tastes like sweat and oreos, which makes sense, because this is how Grif smells most of the time. He kisses like he lives, languid and slow but gentle, gentle around the edges and Simmons cannot bear it. He muffles a sob by thrusting his tongue down Grif’s throat and it’s horrible, they’re so bad at this, he’s so bad at this, but at the same time, it’s. It’s. It’s. 

Grif breaks away with a wet gasping sound and thunks his head against the wall. His full mouth is swollen and shiny with spit. Simmons follows without even thinking about it, leaning into him and catching another brief sweet kiss before Grif puts his hands on his shoulders and holds him at arm’s length.

“Simmons,” he says, breathing heavily, “Simmons, what the fuck?”

Simmons feels his face, already red, flushing deeper. His whole body feels too warm. There’s a tingling sensation in all kinds of odd places and his heart feels like it’s about to explode. 

It wasn’t an accident.

“Um,” he says. It comes out an octave too high. “That was. I. Um.”

They weren’t in danger.

“Jesus, Simmons,” Grif murmurs, rolling so that his forehead is pressed to the wall. Simmons watches sweat trickle down the back of his neck and hates himself. He fiddles with the straps on his armor and says nothing. 

“I mean, what is going on with you?” Grif says. The room is too hot, Simmons’ armor is too tight, and suddenly, he cannot bear it. 

“I’ll, um,” he squeaks, “I need to go talk to the troops. Bye!”

It’s only when he reaches the hallway that he realizes that he’s left his gloves and helmet behind. 

***

On the second day of What Is Left, Simmons pays a cook ten bucks for a shitty pizza and makes his way to Grif’s room. The door is locked, as it has been almost constantly since they travelled to the temple. 

“Grif!” Simmons shouts, thumping his flesh shoulder against the metal. “I know you’re in there! Open up!”

There’s no answer. A cluster of ex-feds give him pitiful looks as they pass by. The bottom of the Pizza box is getting soggy. 

“Oh, for -- let me in, you asshole. I brought food!”

After a pause, the door creaks open slightly. A sliver of Grif’s face is visible through the crack. What little of it Simmons can see looks terrible. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes and crumbs spilling down the front of his shirt.

“What kind of food?” Grif asks. His voice is rough, like he hasn’t spoken for a few days. It should be distressing, but Simmons has to admit it sounds… nice. Appealing, in a strange sort of way that he probably won’t examine, ever.

“Pizza. Come on, just open the door.”

There’s a pause. Grif’s face disappears; after a shuffling, banging noise, the door slides open. Grif grabs the pizza with one hand and Simmons’ collar with the other, dragging him inside. The first thing Simmons notices is the smell: Dead things and unwashed socks, layered over cigarette smoke and something vaguely spicy. He gags as Grif slams the door shut, organic eye watering. 

Every surface of Grif’s small room is coated with stuff. The floor is littered with soda cans and dirty laundry, while pizza boxes, comic books, bottles, plates, knives and god only knows what else are piled high on the desk, chair, shelving unit, even his bed. Which Grif is currently throwing his weight down on, a piece of pizza already out of the box and halfway in his mouth.

“This is disgusting,” Simmons grits out, holding his nose. “How do you live in this?”

“Mmppf?” Grif says. “What? It’s cozy.”

“This room is a pig stye. Actually, I think a pig would be neater than this. At least mud doesn’t grow that much mold.”

“It didn’t feel worth it to clean,” Grif says, shrugging. Simmons rolls his eyes. 

“Nothing ever feels worth it to you,” he gripes, as if this was just another day. Grif’s gaze is a little too steady, though. A little too knowing. “At least throw your dishes in a sink or something.”

“Nah.”

Well. Simmons has nothing to say to that. Grif is smirking because he knows it, and nothing Simmons says or does will make the room any cleaner or Grif any less smug and apathetic. He’d always kind of hoped to bring Grif around to his way of thinking, in a vague, impossible sort of way, but he’s out of time, now. 

“Hey so uh, do you want to watch a movie or something?” he says finally, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Grif’s head shoots up.

“Yes,” he says quickly. “But -- arg -- but if we’re going to hang out, there need to be no questions. None.”

“What do you mean?” Simmons says, before he can help himself. Grif’s expression is withering. He stretches his arms up over his head, shirt riding up enough to show a sliver of dark bare skin. 

“I have weird alien science bullshit in my head that prevents me from lying, remember? This is a fucking nightmare. The only way it could have been worse is if it prevented me from sleeping or eating before I...”

“Die?” 

“Kick the bucket, yeah.”

“I mean, if you look on the brightside…”

“What brightside is that, Simmons?”

There isn’t really a brightside. Simmons sighs. All the more reason to get the ball rolling. Put the plan in motion, so to speak. Go out on a limb. Hop to it. 

It’s up to him to provide a bright side, he tells himself, swelling with determination. The idea that’s been lurking in the back of his head and refusing to leave creeps forward to center stage. He swallows. 

“So, uh,” he says, as casually as he can manage, “about that movie.”

***

Simmons is 15, and has a horrific crush on his father’s secretary. She is young-ish and plump-ish and has dark brown hair that she keeps in a neat bob. She wears matte, light pink lipstick; every time she sees him, she smiles. He tries to smile back, sometimes -- mostly, he hides his face in a book until his knees stop shaking. 

When he turns 16, his father starts taking him to office parties. The food is always delicious, and Simmons is always too nervous to eat more than a few bites. The people are always tall and crisp, with terrifyingly shiny hair. They hold their drinks differently than most people hold drinks and talk in loud, demanding voices about things like stocks and divorce proceedings. 

At one such party, his father’s secretary comes and finds him hiding in a bathroom with his knees against his chest. It’s a men’s bathroom but she enters anyway, which shocks and impresses Simmons into making eye contact. Her eyes are dark, like her hair, and crinkled around the edges.

“Hey, young man,” she says. She’s wearing a tight black and orange dress; now that Simmons has made eye contact, he finds that he can’t look anywhere else without blushing deeply. “Your dad is looking for you.”

No one in the Simmons family refers to his father as dad. He is always either Father or Richard. When you mess up at anything, he is Sir.

“Um,” Simmons says. 

“Your name’s Richard, right? Like your old man.”

“Um,” Simmons says. His parents mostly call him Dick, which he does not want to say. The people at school call him Dicky, which he wants to say even less.

“Come on, then, Richard,” says his father’s secretary, holding out a hand. “It’s best not to keep him waiting.”

Simmons does not take her hand. If he had, he might have fainted -- or, worse, refused to let go. He lets himself be led from the bathroom, face burning, fingers clenched. His father’s secretary pats him on the back and gives him a sympathetic look before handing him back to the crowd. The memory of a hand between his shoulderblades, gentle and reassuring, lingers with him for weeks. 

Three months later, she is fired. Simmons never learns her name. 

***

They decide on Star Wars, because it’s neutral territory and Grif hasn’t shut up about it since they met the rebels in the first place. Out of silent, mutual agreement, neither of them mentions the prequels. At one point, back in Blood Gulch, Grif had said something about not minding Jar Jar Binks and Simmons hadn’t talked to him for three days. After a little harmless bickering about which of the trilogy had the worst special effects they settle on A New Hope, because it’s been a while since the last marathon and Grif always has a hard time remember what’s going on in the background. 

Simmons insists that they watch in his room, and that Grif take a shower first. Strangely enough, Grif actually complies. It’s weirdly unsettling, and Simmons can’t tell whether or not to feel gratified. 

This leaves him alone, however, to slip the DVD into his laptop, skip to the startup menu, and then start panicking. 

The idea -- no, Idea, it was taking on a life of its own at this point, and deserved a capital letter -- won’t leave him alone. On some level, he knows that it’s terrible. On another level, his entire life has been terrible ideas -- his own, and other people’s -- and somehow he’s still alive. He’s still alive. 

What the hell, he thinks desperately, as Princess Leia and Han Solo stare at him disparagingly from the startup menu. He’ll be doing a friend a good turn, after all. Completely selfless. Tucker would approve. Donut would definitely approve. No, don’t think of Donut. Oh, god, the mental images --

“Dude, are you ok?” Grif asked, stepping into the room. He turns off the lights and slings himself down next to Simmons on the bed. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead; water droplets slide down the Blade tattoo on his neck and under the collar of his orange shirt. It was the one that he’d ripped the sleeves off of, on a particularly hot day in Blood Gulch; Simmons had assumed that he’d thrown it out. 

Grif, for the first time in months, smells clean. The Federation soap is unscented, so Grif smells like Donut’s lavender shampoo and cucumbers and something deeper and more human. He does not smell like sweat, which is actually highly disorienting. Simmons frowns. 

“Hey, Earth to Simmons. Tatween to Simmons.”

“Actually,” Simmons says, “it’s pronounced --” 

“Oh, shut up,” Grif says, pressing start. 

***

On the fifth day into What is Left, Simmons goes out hunting. They had their best scientists examining the Veritas Device for a failsafe, but Simmons’ theory is that the device was broken when the temple it was from collapsed. There should be similar devices nearby. Maybe one of them would hold the key.

He walks very carefully, prodding the air in front of him with a stick, and finds nothing.

***

The Death Star explodes and Simmons does not cry. The movie ends. They started it at opposite ends of the bed and ended it just barely touching, with Grif’s shoulder brushing against Simmons’ side and their legs pressed together in a firm line. Simmons reminds himself to breathe. The credits scroll.

“Hey,” the Idea says, using Simmons’ voice.

“Hmm?” Grif’s eyes are half closed. The light of the screen flickers across them in the dark. Grif’s eyelashes are very long. 

Simmons chickens out. He stuffs the Idea down somewhere deep and quiet and casts around for something to say.

“So, uh,” he says, “um. Why didn’t you tell me that you were --”

That was not what he meant to say. He swallows heavily as Grif looks up at him, eyebrows raised. 

“What, a pisces?” He says. “No questions, jackass, remember?”

“Yeah, right. Um, sorry.”

“Mmm.”

The credits end. The menu starts up again. Simmons ejects the disk, but leaves the computer on his lap.  
“So --” he starts, just as Grif says, 

“Actually --”

They look at each other. It occurs to Simmons that if he shifts a little to the left, they could be cuddling. He blushes. Again. At this point, he’s a little worried that any more embarrassment or excitement will cause the electronics in his head to short-circuit.

“You, uh, you first,” he says. Grif shrugs, arm brushing against Simmons’ ribs. 

“I kinda,” he said quietly, “figured you knew? I mean.”

“How the hell would I have known?” Simmons says angrily. Grif gives him a very pointed look, eyes dipping down slightly, and oh, god, he’s looking at his mouth. Simmons turns his face away. 

“You could have guessed. And, anyway, it wasn’t something I wanted to bring up. I’m not like Donut, you know? I don’t just go around puking rainbows all over everything.”

“Right.”

“Right. So, anyway, what was it you were going to say?”

Simmons breathes in deep through his nose, fingers twisting the perfectly folded sheets. This is it. This is his moment to support Grif in his time of need. Or something. The Idea sits heavy on his tongue. He swallows. Again. 

“So,” he says, willing his voice not to crack, “I was just thinking, you know. If you wanted to… before you… I mean, I’d be willing to, uh. Help. With that.”

Then he waits. He does not look at Grif. His robot hand whirrs quietly. The computer in his lap goes to screensaver, little blue fish swimming through a green, animated lake. 

“... What?” Grif says, after what feels like an age. “Was that supposed to be a sentence? I mean an actual sentence, with words people actually understand?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Simmons snaps back reflexively, looking up. Grif smirks, showing dimples. Oh, but Simmons hates him. 

“Yeah, you wish.”

Oh. Oh, God. Simmons clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck with his metal hand. He shifts awkwardly on the bed, which creaks, and pulls away so that he and Grif are no longer touching. The loss feels more painful than it should.

“Uhm, yeah, about that. That’s kind of, what I, oh forget it.”

“Hold on -- did you just offer to get me laid? Because Tucker already --”

“That isn’t exactly what I offered, no,” Simmons says bruskly, setting the laptop on the side table and drawing his legs up to his chest. Beside him, Grif slumps back against the wall and spreads himself out like an amoeba, sprawled limbs taking up at least two thirds of the bed. 

“I’m sorry, my cryptic nerd translator must not be up to date.”

“Oh shut up, dickwad.”

“Simmons. Siiiiimmons. C’mon, now I’m curious.”

“Mrmph.”

“Simmons…” Grif leans in close. Simmons can feel his breath on his shoulder, the back of his neck. It smells like bad pizza. “Come oooon…”

“Uuuugh. I -- I wasn’t offering to help you have sex with someone else. It was a stupid idea, so just, just leave me alone.”

Grif pauses. Simmons buries his face in his arms. Stupid Idea. Stupid Idea and stupid him for going along with it and stupid Grif for being so goddamn close --

“Oh,” Grif says slowly, “Oh my god. Oh my god. Did you seriously -- you, nerd virgin Simmons. I don’t even know what to say. Hold on. Hold on, let me get this straight. Or, well, not straight. Let me get this gay, Simmons. I’m going to die, so you’re offering to… Holy shit, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Just shut up,” Simmons says, staring through his legs to the dim floor. “I was being selfless. See if I ever offer to do anything for you ever again.”

Grif laughs. It is a strange, strained laugh. For all his jokes, he doesn’t laugh very often.

“Look,” Simmons says desperately, “If the answer’s no and you’re just going to laugh at me you can leave. Get out of my room, Grif.” It would have had far more strength if Simmons’ voice hadn’t cracked on the word ‘room.’ He feels a familiar lump in his throat. Grif is silent for a few moments. He’s still close enough that Simmons can feel his body heat, and hear cloth rustle every time he shifts even slightly. Simmons holds his breath.

“I didn’t say no,” Grif says finally. 

***

On the seventh day of What Is Left, Simmons goes to Tucker to beg for a drink and finds Tucker already occupied. 

“Find your own booze. I’m busy,” Tucker says, holding a blanket in place around his groin with one hand. He looks pointedly over his shoulder into his room. The door is half-closed, so Simmons can’t see what Tucker’s looking at, but he catches a glimpse of Agent Washington’s helmet on the floor before Tucker slams the door in his face. 

He goes to Doctor Grey, instead, and ignores the probing questions in favor of getting completely smashed off of what might be rubbing alcohol. If he breaks down sobbing, well, that’s his own damn business. Doctor Grey, to her credit, says nothing.

There is no eighth day.


	3. losing my religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for... well. I'm not entirely sure how to tag it, but it's there. Awkward sexual situations and organ failure? 
> 
> Yeah. Let's go with that.

The messenger’s hands twist. Her helmet visor betrays nothing of her expression, but still, Simmons can tell that she is not looking at him. Her back is very straight.  
“Captain Simmons,” she says gravely, “Captain Simmons, 

***

The Fed dining hall, nicknamed ‘the goddamn tin can’ by the Rebels, is fit to bursting with troops in armor and half armor and civies. The two groups have mostly intermingled by now, and are pounding on the tables and laughing like hyenas and shouting at the tops of their lungs. It’s friendly and bright and full of comradery. 

Simmons hates it. He hates the way the noise produces feedback in his metal ear. He hates the press of too many people, more than he ever thought he’d see back during those long years on blood gulch. He hates the beige mush on his plate, pretending to be beef hash. He hates his friends.

Donut is seated on his left babbling happily about home decorating and getting far too close into everyone’s personal space, as usual. Grif is pointedly not listening to him, or anyone else for that matter, just shoveling food into his disgusting mouth like there’s no tomorrow.

Grif hasn’t said a word all meal, just thumped himself down into place with two soldier’s worth of rations and an embarrassing amount of chocolate milk. Simmons wonders how on Earth Grif managed to swing that much food. He doesn’t ask, though. They haven’t talked since the Star Wars Disaster, and anticipation and fear are burning a hole in his tongue. 

“Donut,” Sarge says from Grif’s left, arms crossed, “If you say one more word about cobalt or azool or aquathingy curtains I will have your scalp removed and turned into a throw pillow!”

Sarge is wearing his helmet. Sarge is always wearing his helmet. It occurs to Simmons that he’s never actually seen the man eat. 

With a loud bang, Grif slams his chocolate milk down on the table and stands up. Simmons jolts; they make eye contact for a brief, sharp second, and Grif smirks. Grif is always smirking, like he knows more than he’s letting on to and might just be persuaded to share it. Grif’s mouth is always full of taunting smiles and bitter side-twists and resting scowls. The smirk fades, replaced by something Simmons can’t name; Grif’s hooded eyes are dark, calculating. 

He jerks his head towards the door and raises his eyebrows. There is chocolate milk smudged around his lips. Then, without waiting to see if Simmons follows, he lumbers his way out into the hallway. 

“Hey, rude,” Donut says as Simmons jumps abruptly to his feet. “I didn’t even --”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Simmons says on autopilot, picking up his tray. He starts towards the bussing counter, then reconsiders, and grabs Grif’s tray, too. The jerkwad never did know when to clean up after himself.

***

A screwdriver slips from his Simmons’ hand and clatters on the tile floor. The messenger’s voice is soft when she says,  
“Captain Grif was escorted to the medical bay at 0700 hours this morning. I was told...”

She keeps speaking, but the words do not make sense. Simmons shakes his head.

***

There is mud from Grif’s standard-issue combat boots smearing Simmon’s crisp blue sheets and cigarette ash on the spotless floor. Grif leans back, one arm over his head, and takes another deep, long drag. He’s waving away the smoke when the door clicks open and Simmons snaps,

“Put that damn thing out!” Because Simmons wouldn’t know a good coping mechanism if it bit him on the tight metal ass. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Grif said, staring up at the ceiling. “Wait -- watch this, though.”

He tries for a french inhale, a stupid, showy trick that his college roommate taught him during freshman year -- his only year, because he got a job that Summer that paid well enough, and it seemed better than chasing a pipe dream over debt mountain. Somehow, it was the only lesson of that whole year that had stuck. Simmons watches him, arms crossed, as he lets the smoke gather in his mouth, then exhales slowly, and -- sneezes, violently, fucking up the draw. 

“Augh, shit, that was so much easier with my old lungs,” he wheezes, as Simmons strides forward to pluck the cigarette from his hand and put it out on the metal wall. Grif makes a little disgruntled noise and pouts, sticking out his lower lip. 

“Yeah, yeah, very impressive. Asshole.” Simmons shoves Grif’s legs to make a space on the edge of the bed, and sits down with his legs crossed. He had taken his shoes off at the door, and Grif could see flesh and metal toes poking through his neon yellow socks. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault that didn’t work. You’re the one with pansy lungs.”

“Just because I don’t -- didn’t -- ruin my body with nicotine and rat poison -- and besides, you only got one lung! It’s at least half on you!”

“Bullshit,” Grif scoffs, nudging Simmons’ back with the side of his thigh. Simmons jolts forward with a yelp, posture straightening, head jerking up. Grif laughs. “Sensitive, princess?”

“Oh, shut up. What is this about, anyway?”

“I cannot answer if the question is unspecified.” Grif says automatically. He winces angrily, cursing the weird alien auto-responder using his voice. Who the hell talks like that? “Fuck. Don’t do that. What’s what about?”

“You know, with the --” Simmons scrunches up his eyes and makes a jerking motion with his head, in a bad impression of the gesture Grif gave him earlier. “You’re mister nonverbal for days and then suddenly it’s all ‘meet me at the secret base,’ except the secret base is actually my room and instead of a spy you’re just a filthy excuse for a captain filling my space with cancer smoke.”

Alright, so that stings a bit. Normally, Grif would throw in something about what a great James Bond he would make and Simmons would do a Blofeld impression, and then they’d argue about who would be the Bond girl, Donut or Lopez. Instead, Grif closes his fingers around the cigarette pack in his pocket and does not answer. Simmons sighs and leans back to slump his head against the wall, so that Grif’s legs are nestled between it and the curve of his lower back. The harsh white light throws the handsome, all-American angles of his face into sharp relief. Grif says, 

“You know that I’m not going to be attracted to you just because I’m gay, right?” And watches Simmons’ ears go from pale to red in 0.2 seconds.

“I don’t -- I didn’t -- agkt.” Simmons chokes back, in an especially strangled tone of voice. Grif thumps him again with his knee, harder this time, and Simmons makes a noise like a sad wet cat. 

“It’s not like I want to bone every single dude on this goddamn planet,” he continues, gesturing vaguely. “I’m not gonna, like. Jump Caboose’s bones. Or Donut’s. Or --”

“I, uh, I get it.”

“Just saying. I’m not that desperate for dick, Dick.”

“Alright!” Simmons ducks his head. The bright red of his blush makes the freckles on his neck stand out even more. “I get it, already! No need to go into detail, or anything.”

“Good.” Grif props himself up on one elbow and reaches out, fingers settling on Simmons’ ankle where it rests on his thigh. “So. You still down to fuck?”

***

“So,” Grif says. Simmons drags his attention away from the sudden hand on his ankle in time to hear, “You still down to fuck?”

“I -- What?” Simmons splutters. Grif’s hand is hot through the fabric of his sock, and his bloodshot eyes are mockingly sincere. Simmons feels like his brain is short circuiting because this isn’t, this doesn’t make sense, Grif just said. 

You don’t want me, Simmons thinks wildly, as Grif’s hand moves from his ankle to his thigh, heavy and burning through the thin cloth. You don’t --

“I said, are you still down to fuck. And no questions, for fuck’s sake. Yes or no.” When Simmons still doesn’t answer, he adds, “It was your idea in the first place.”

“Yes, and you said it was stupid, and then you said you’d think about it, and then you laughed and punched me and went to take a fucking nap!” Simmons’ voice is climbing in octaves, cracking embarrassingly. He feels hot and then cold and then too hot again. There’s a whir as the cooling systems in his arm and side pick up. All he can see is snap-shot memories of Grif, Grif’s lips against his and Grif’s tongue in his mouth and Grif, shirtless and smiling in the shade all those years ago in Blood Gulch, the day that the warthog broke down. The word ‘fuck’ shaped like an invitation on Grif’s lips. You don’t want me. 

Grif tilts his head to the side, dark hair flopping across his face. 

“It is stupid,” he says,“but since when have we done anything that wasn’t fucking idiotic? Simmons, ever since I joined the army, I have been surrounded by some of the worst goddamn dumbasses ever. Of all time. No one we’ve fought has ever expected us to be competent! And you know what? Most of the time, they were right. We’ve stumbled ass-backwards through victory after victory based on sheer ridiculousness and I, for one, would rather get an orgasm out of a stupid decision than get kicked in the balls by Tex again. Or shot at, stabbed, launched into space, run over, blown up --”

He ticks the causes of death off on his fingers, one by one, until Simmons can’t take it any more. He grabs Grif’s hand and places it back on his thigh. Grif’s eyes go wide. The hand squeezes lightly, fingertips burning brands into Simmons’ skin. 

“Yes,” Simmons hears himself say. “Yes, I am still, uh, down. To -- to fuck.”

“Oh,” Grif says. “Cool.”

“Right. Cool.”

Simmons clears his throat. 

***

“Right,” Simmons says. “Cool.”

He looks a bit like he did when Grif found him cuddling with his double in the holodeck: shocked, confused, overwhelmingly embarrassed. The pulse in his thigh thuds against Grif’s palm. Testing a hypothesis, Grif moves his hand up a fraction of an inch, and feels it speed up. Simmons gulps, and clears his throat. 

“Did you have a time in mind, or…?” Simmons asks. He sounds like he’s talking about scheduling a debriefing -- or he would, if his voice wasn’t shaking. Grif shrugs.

“I mean, yes,” he says, fighting for casual like he hasn’t been obsessing over this for the past day and a half. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Right,” Simmons says again. “So…”

“You never can catch a hint, can you, Simmons?” Grif replies, sitting up. Simmons opens his mouth, obviously affronted. He’s about to start talking so Grif moves his hand from his thigh to the back of his head and kisses him. 

“Mmmph,” Simmons says. “Mmph -- mmm.”

It is not the world’s best kiss. The angle is awkward, with Grif’s legs still trapped behind Simmons’ back and his head tilted up so that his neck cricks. There’s a second of frozen equilibrium where Simmons’ lips are soft and chapped against his and neither of them moves. Grif realizes that his eyes are closed. Grif realizes that this horrible, momentary travesty of a kiss is turning him on more than any stripper ever has. 

There is a soft, wet sound as Simmons pulls back. 

Grif opens his eyes, smirks, and waits for him to run. 

***

Simmons does not run. 

For a few seconds, the rational part of his brain reminds him that:

  1. This is Grif that he’s dealing with
  2. Grif’s smirk has only ever gotten him into trouble
  3. This is Grif that’s in his bed
  4. He barely knows his way around his own dick, let alone someone else’s
  5. He is already painfully, stupidly hard, because of:
  6. Grif. This is Grif, in his bed. Grif, smirking like a challenge. Like he’s already won the bet. Never mind that there is no bet, Simmons cannot let him win. Grif will never let him forget it if he backs down now, will never let him forget it if he doesn’t. Even if (when) Grif dies he will haunt Simmons specifically to tease him about this night and hell, might as well get an orgasm out of it, right? Might as well.



Might as well. 

This is a lot to process in a few seconds. While Simmons sits there, blinking, robot hand raised halfway in the air and mouth slightly open, Grif moves. He pushes Simmons lightly to the side (hand warm on Simmons’ shoulder, the touch against metal like a breathe of warm air across wet skin) and extracts his legs, which he then crosses. 

“Hey,” he says with a small laugh, cupping Simmons’ cheek in one large, slightly sticky hand. “Hey, buddy, you still in there?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Simmons blurts out. Grif’s dark, deep set eyes blow wide; his mouth twists with shock, and Simmons is about to go bury his head in the nearest sandpit when Grif’s face settles into something soft and unfamiliar. 

“Take off your shirt,” he says -- hesitant, questioning, but backed with stone. 

Simmons does. His fingers stumble over the buttons and catch when he gives up and tries to pull the whole thing up over his head. Face burning, he throws it to the side -- not in the laundry, he’ll have to fix that later -- and waits for Grif to laugh. 

***

Grif does not laugh. 

He leans back for a second and takes it all in: Dick Simmons, hair mussed, face and neck flushed a deep red, half naked and embarrassed with his stupidly dark, wide lips parted. It is not the first time he’s seen Simmons shirtless. It is the first time he’s allowed himself to look. 

Greedy, he drinks in the pale expanse of Simmon’s chest, his small pink nipples and the small cluster of moles on his left side. There is a jagged expanse of scar tissue leading from a metal plate just below his right arm down to his stomach; Grif’s hand goes, unprompted, to the matching scar on his belly. Simmons’ body is his in negative, dark where his is light and visa versa, curving in where he curves out. Wordless, he reaches out, and brushes his fingertips across a stapled line on one of Simmons’ ribs. This was where he got the lung. He can see the grey cast of metal underneath Simmons’ freckled skin.

Simmons shudders, exhaling sharply. 

“What do you want, Grif?” He asks quietly, and Grif is almost thankful for the alien device fucking up his head because it gives him an excuse to say, 

“You.”

It comes out raw and gruff and cuts deeper to the bone than he had expected, than he had hoped. For years, he has only allowed himself to want two things: to live, and to go home. Everything else, food, arguments, sex, was just a way to hold himself together.

“You,” he says again, and falls apart. 

***

Hands, on buckles on zippers clutching the back of a head clutching the sheets. The bed is hard against Simmons’ back and Grif is hard against his hand but his tongue is soft, soft against his lips. Simmons spreads his legs and invites, and asks and asks and asks and Grif mutters curse words into his mouth and then against his throat. 

“Please,” Simmons says, “please. Let me be good for you. I can be -- just let me -- please, Grif -- Aah!”

There is a sharp staccato of pain as Grif trails small bites across his collarbone, something that shouldn’t feel good but does, and leave it to the glutton to know what to do with his teeth. Simmons writhes up and Grif grinds down, hand doing something soft and electric and oh, oh but that’s -- 

“Grif,” Simmons moans, body curving back like the pulling of a trigger. Everything is hot and tight and new. His human fingers fist in Grif’s hair as he gasps, sharp, and comes hard against the palm of Grif’s hand. 

***

This is what the AIs came to understand:  
In conferring with Santa about the Veritas Device, they learned that the Device worked by affecting neurological change on a level humans had yet to uncover. They learned that when the trial period was up -- eight days after the activation, according to some scientific-spiritual principal Tucker called ‘fucking obtuse--’ the failsafe would activate, causing the organs of the condemned to shut down, one after another. It usually began with the mutated extremities of the alien target. How this would translate to human biology was unknown.  
The process, on average, took a total of 15 minutes. It ended, they said, with the brain. 

***

“Well,” Simmons says, just as Grif is about to drift off to sleep. “That was. Oh my god, Grif, I.”  
“Nrg,” Grif says in agreement. “Mrmph.”

“So…”

“Hmm?” Grif cracks open one eye. Simmons is looking at him, still flushed a deep red, his forehead gleaming with sweat. They’re tangled in an undignified heap on the hard, narrow mattress, skin stuck together in all kinds of places. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and sex, a smell Grif had never liked. 

“... What do we do now?” Simmons asks. He sounds like he’s trying for casual and failing miserably. Grif shrugs. 

“I’m going to sleep,” he answers, stretching the arm not trapped under Simmons’ side out above his head. “You can… do whatever you want, I guess.”

“No, I meant -- Ugh. Forget it.” Simmons looks down at them and wrinkles his face. “This is disgusting.”

“Yup.”

“Is it always so --”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Mmmhm.”

“Grif --”

“Muh?”

“... Never mind.”

***

Grif is asleep when it starts. At first he has no idea what’s happening, only that something is wrong. There’s an empty pit in his abdomen where something is supposed to be and he can’t feel any of the toes on his left foot. He sits up, and feels one lung give out like a punch to the chest.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, pulling himself out of bed. He tries to stand, and fails when his left leg gives out entirely. When he reaches out to catch himself, something in his wrist cracks. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

Slowly, crawling on his forearms, he pulls himself across the cluttered floor to the low table. After three tries, he manages to grab his communicator off it and turn it on.

“Calling Dr. Grey,” he says, his voice trembling. The buzz on the other line lasts too long, he cannot breathe --

“Captain Grif!” The doctor’s voice is terrifyingly chipper, as always. Grif’s head begins to swim. “Why are you --”

“Fuck,” Grif says, “Fuck, I need help. I need help, please.”

There’s a short pause. Then Dr. Grey says,

“Can you come to me?”

“Ugh. Exercise is, that’s a no, right now.”

“Alright. I’ll send someone to your room right away.”

She hangs up. Grif lets himself slump back. The feeling is gone from one of his arms, now, as well as both legs. His torso feels like it’s been studded with holes, cold and empty vortexes where soft, working squishy things should be. The world seems to spin, colors running together.

There is a half-eaten sandwich a few feet to his left. He stretches out the arm-that-was-Simmons’, but cannot quite reach. Dejected, he lets his hand fall.

Simmons. He should call Simmons, he needs to call Simmons, needs to tell him -- needs to tell him --

There is a pounding at the door as the world goes black. 

***

Simmons walks to the medical bay alone, half in armor, half out. His robot arm, half-tuned, hangs useless at his side. The control panel is still open. He puts one foot in front of the other and stares straight ahead. 

A patrol passes him, and another. They do not speak. He sees Andersmith in the hall and refuses eye contact, just hunches his shoulders and keeps walking. 

Sarge is waiting for him by the medical bay doors. Next to him is Donut, looking uncharacteristically solemn. The blues, and Lopez, are nowhere to be seen.

“Hi,” Donut says. Simmons nods, and does not cry. Sarge clears his throat.

“They’ve had him in there doing science-y things for a while,” he says gruffly. “Dr. Whatshername and Doc pulled out their scanner doohickies and anatomy whatsits. Did you know that the brisket on a human body is roughly three times smaller ‘n that of a cow?”

“No, Sir,” Simmons says.

“Right! Well, neither did I. Wish we’d kept your spleen around, it would’ve made for a great way to boost moral. Nothing like a good game of… Oh, fuck it.”

“Sir?” Donut said timidly. Sarge grunted. 

“Simmons,” he said, “you look sadder ‘n a wet cat at its mom’s third funeral, and I am sick t’death of standin’ around doing nothing. I may not like Captain Grif -- I may despise him with my entire being -- but he is a Red! And while that might not mean jack shit to the rest of the galaxy, well, it sure as hell means something to me. So we’re going to bust through this door, and we’re going to see Captain Grif, and if they try and stop me, so help me God --”

The door slides open and Doctor Grey steps out. 

“Oh, great, you’re all here!” She says cheerfully. There’s blood on her gauntlets and splattered across her chestpiece. “Come on in. Oh, sorry, were you saying something?”

“No, ma’am, I was not,” Sarge says crisply. 

“Come on in!” Doctor Grey’s expression is hidden behind her visor, but Simmons can feel her eyes on him when she says, “He’s in a medically induced coma at the moment.”

“Sleeping on the job again!” Sarge says, but his tone is subdued as they are led into the medbay. Bright, harsh sunlight falls through the high glass windows, providing some of the only natural light in the base. They walk through empty white beds and closed-off berths, surrounded on both sides by the groans and muttering of the wounded. A few of the more cognizant patients call out greetings. Simmons keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, staring at the back of Doctor Grey’s head. 

“You know,” She chirps, hip-checking a low gurney covered in viscera to the side, “It’s a miracle he’s survived this long, really. There were things in that man’s body that I’ve never seen before! And I have seen a lot of weird shit, ha. But medically speaking, he should have been dead at least three years ago, from heart strain alone. And the donor organs -- you know, I think part of his intestine was put in upside-down!”

Sarge clears his throat. 

“Ah, here we are!” Doctor Grey says, stopping in front of a bed in the far corner. It was surrounded by medical equipment: bags of different colored liquid hooked up to IV tubes, an oxygen tank, countless monitors displaying things Simmons can’t begin to understand. The doctor pulls back the white curtain, and Simmons’ knees buckle.

Grif is laid out on the bed, swaddled in a blue hospital gown, his hands resting limply by his side. There is a green cast to his dark skin; he face is lax, half-covered by a breathing mask. Someone has shaved his head and covered it in small, circular censors, like octopus tentacles latched tight to his scalp. 

Simmons’ legs give out. Doctor Grey catches him and maneuvers him carefully to a chair beside the bed, tutting. He reaches out and takes one of Grif’s hands in his own, careful of the needles taped to the inside of his arm. 

“It’s bad enough that one of our men is down,” Sarge says stiffly, “but did you have to put him in blue? Have you no shame?”

“It’s the only hospital gown color we had available! Besides, we were more focused, on, you know, saving his life.”

“Better dead than blue!” 

“Sarge,” Donut interjects, “I think we should just be grateful that he’s alright! Well, technically he’s a vegetable, but still! Also, red would have clashed with the room’s color scheme and washed out his complexion.” 

“Grif hates vegetables,” Simmons says woodenly. Behind his eyelids, one of Grif’s eyes flickers. His hand is cold and clammy. 

“You know,” Doctor Grey says, ignoring the way the blood on her gloves smears across the paper as she flicks through a chart, “it’s funny that he’s alive at all. The Veritas Device just didn’t affect any of his donor organs, I guess. It’s a fascinating scientific --”

“What --” Simmons begins. His voice gives out. He licks his lips, and tries again. “What does he need?”

“Hmm?”

There is a crease around Grif’s mouth that is never there when he sleeps. The edges of a blackwork tattoo are barely visible through the tangle of tubes and wires above his left ear. 

“What organs does he need?”

“Son--” Sarge begins, but Simmons cuts him off. 

“I have a working lung, heart, kidney, lower intestine, eye, diaphragm, and brain. My blood type is O positive. All of the sweat glands in my body have been replaced by a coolant system but I still have functional skin as well as an endocrine system. I’m missing one arm and half a leg, but all of my other muscles are basically intact.”

“That’s not how organ donation works!” Doctor Grey says, staring down at him. “We don’t even know that you would be compatible --”

Sarge coughs loudly. Doctor Grey turns to look at him. 

“It, uh, wouldn’t be the first time,” he says. “Red team had a serious cyborg deficiency! And once we had all those extra mushy bits lying around, we thought, well, might as well jam ‘em into Grif’s decrepit, mutilated body and see what happens!” 

Donut nodds. Doctor Grey looks between the three of them, then up at the ceiling. 

“I don’t know why I’m ever surprised anymore,” she says. 

***

The surgery goes well. The surgery goes, and Simmons wakes up with new scars and a buzzing in his chest where his heartbeat used to be. He wakes up to dim fluorescent lights and a nurse, short-haired and grey-eyed, leaning over him. 

It takes hours to leave the medical bay. There are papers to sign and tests to deal with and Simmons can’t stop blushing when he realizes that his hospital gown is open in the back. His whole body hurts. It tastes like something died in the back of his throat, and when he asks about Grif the nurses only answer with shrugs. 

If Simmons still had a heart, it would be in his throat. By the time he leaves medical it is well past sunset. A nurse walks with him to his room and orders him to stay put until morning, when he would be escorted back for follow-up experiments. The replacement circulatory system that Sarge made him is, after all, utterly unprecedented (and probably technically impossible. It’s hard to tell, these days.) 

Simmons lies on his back on top of his bed, the bed he’d fucked Grif in, had fucked or been fucked or just been, and looks at the ceiling. The sheets are perfectly clean beneath his fingers. In the silence, he can hear each new mechanical addition to his body whirr and click and hum. He is less human, now, because of Grif. 

Fuck the nurses. He goes for a walk. 

***

“Fuuuuuck,” Grif slurs out, leaning against the railing of the low balcony. The fresh scars on his shaved head stand out in the shadows of the pre-dawn. “Fuuuuuck, man, I almost died.”

“Congratulations,” Tucker drawls, knocking back a swallow of cheap bourbon. “Join the fucking club. I mean, who hasn’t?”

“No, but like. For real. I almost died for real. And for no -- no fucking reason, I mean, fuck. I was dead.”

“Huh.”

“Do you ever -- Tucker, d’you ever feel like we can’t actually die? I mean, shit. Shit, the doctors were all, this is scientif -- scien -- impossible, like, regular rules don’t even apply to us anymore. Everything’s just gone all batshit everywhere, I mean, what’s the point.”

“Fuck if I know,” Tucker says. He shifts, trying to get comfortable against the cold, hard wall of the base. It isn’t easy. 

It’s a clear night, and the stars are out in all their glory. Growing up in the suburbs, there was always too much light pollution for that. When he was in Blood Gulch, he’d never thought to look.

Grif must be thinking along similar lines, because he says,

“Do you think we can see Earth from here?”

“Prob’bly,” Tucker replies. He blinks, and everything goes a little blurry. The stars streak and turn, and he shuts his eyes against the enormity of it.

“If we go back,” Grif says quietly, which is weird, because Grif only ever speaks in ‘when.’ “if we go back, will it go back to normal?”

It’s a big question. Tucker opens his mouth, then closes it again. He wonders if Wash would have an answer. Probably not. 

The door slides open. Tucker squints up, and sees Simmons standing there awkwardly, eyes wide, mouth parted. He’s staring at Grif, and Grif, as far as Tucker can tell, is staring back. 

“Well,” Tucker says loudly, pulling himself clumsily to his feet, “that’s my cue to leave. Have fun, you two. But not too much fun.”

He picks up the bourbon, and pushes it into Simmons’ chest as he passes him. 

“Bow chicka bow wow,” he adds, and stumbles away down the corridor. 

***

“So,” Simmons says, after the initial relief and exuberance have subsided a bit. The metal railing is cold against his back. He raises the bourbon bottle, but does not drink.

“So,” Grif echos. He looks, Simmons thinks, incredibly tired. But oh, oh thank God that he’s alive. Simmons longs to press his hand to Grif’s chest, to affirm the beating of his borrowed heart. To burrow his head into Grif’s neck beside the point of his pulse and stay there, breathing as one being. To link his metal fingers with the fingers that were his and are now Grif’s, testing the boundaries of what is him, what is Grif, where the two meet and intermingle and change. His fingers twist. He does not move. 

“Ask me something,” Grif says. His eyes are bright. Simmons swallows. “C’mon, Simmons. Ask.”

“You’re drunk,” Simmons says. His voice cracks slightly with the relief of it. 

“Simmons,” Grif says. “Ask.”

Simmons takes a sudden swig of alcohol, nearly choking as it burns its way down his throat. Once the fumes have cleared, he wipes his mouth and says, 

“What do you want me to ask?”

“Anything. C’mon, I can say no again, it’s great. I want to try. Please?”

Simmons takes in a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. He has no good questions. He has so many questions, and all of them are too embarrassing to even think of voicing out loud. 

Then he thinks of Grif, lying flat and unresponsive on the hospital bed. Fuck it, he decides. If it all goes to hell, he can always blame the bourbon. 

“What do you want from me?” he says, cursing the way his voice comes out so small. Grif sighs, and lets his head flop back against the bars. Simmons watches him swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing. 

“I don’t know,” Grif says finally. It sounds like the truth. 

“I love you,” Simmons says. Even before the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. Grif looks at him then, really looks at him, face open and unguarded and full of something kind and dark that makes Simmons feel like he’s drowning. 

Then Grif laughs, and the moment is broken. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Simmons snaps, pulling his knees up to his chest. “It’s not funny!”

“Simmons,” Grif gasps between guffaws, slapping his thigh with his right hand, “Simmons -- oh, man -- Simmons, I know.”

“What the fuck?” Simmons says before he can help himself. “Did -- did you just Han Solo me?”

“Oh, God, you’re such a nerd. Oh, fuck…” Grif doubles over, coughing. Simmons pats him on the back, then remembers that he’s angry, and stops. 

The coughing subsides. They sit there for a few seconds, silent, staring up the metal walls of the base -- and, above that, the stars. Simmons knows, in a detached sort of way, that he should be anxious. If he still had a normal human heart, it would be racing. And yet. 

“I’m a terrible boyfriend,” Grif says suddenly, breaking the quiet. When he takes the bottle from Simmons, his hand brushes against Simmons’ thigh and makes him shiver. “Like, awful. Absolute worst.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Really. Can’t remember --” Grif pauses to belch, and wipe his palms on his loose t-shirt, “ -- can’t remember dates for shit. Anniversaries? Pfft. Fuck that.”

“Grif, if you’re telling me that you’re a total fuckmunch, guess what: I already know. I’ve known you for almost eight years, idiot.”

“‘m just saying. People don’t -- they don’t tend to stick around long, y’know?” 

He says it lightly, like it’s nothing. Simmons bites the inside of his cheek. After a second, he reaches out, and takes Grif’s hand. Grif looks at him sideways but does not pull away.

“Yeah,” he says, “actually, I do know.”

“Hrmm.”

“Do you…” Simmons clears his throat, and tries again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Grif laughs, once. The sound is sharp and dry and edged with desperation. Simmons can sympathize. 

“You know what, Simmons?” Grif says quietly, setting the bottle aside. He squeezes their conjoined hands and smiles. Trembling only slightly, Simmons smiles back. “I think maybe I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, I can breathe. There we go. The end.  
> If you have any questions, please make sure to leave a question, or message me at trickingthenarrative.tumblr.com. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Any complaints/questions/comments/concerns/dedications should be directed to [my tumblr](http://www.trickingthenarrative.tumblr.com). Feel free to come say hi!


End file.
